


Gods of Cruel Design

by nu_breed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e20 What Is and What Should Never Be, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-16
Updated: 2008-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't his home. It isn't his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods of Cruel Design

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remix of [](http://aynslee.livejournal.com/profile)[**aynslee**](http://aynslee.livejournal.com/)'s fic [I Fear My Time Is Short](http://aynslee.livejournal.com/5714.html) done for [](http://spn-remix.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_remix**](http://spn-remix.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/profile)[**veronamay**](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and [](http://cormallen.livejournal.com/profile)[**cormallen**](http://cormallen.livejournal.com/) and [](http://thenyxie.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thenyxie.livejournal.com/)**thenyxie** for audiencing.

When he wakes up, before he notices the body next to him, he knows there's something not quite right. Dean can't put his finger on why. All he knows is it isn't the same.

In the daylight he realises that everything seems more vivid here. Dean thinks maybe there's some kind of universal remote which makes colours brighter and more vibrant, tastes and smells stronger. A hunter's senses are invariably stronger than an average civilian's anyway; they have to be. But here, everything just seems so much more than real.

He doesn't know what he expects when his mother embraces him, but she just feels so warm and alive and human, and being in the same space as her makes him feel clumsy and stupid.

Dean was too young to remember what his mother smelled like the first time around, but he knows better now. Now he knows that Mary Winchester smells like gardenia and has a blinding, warm, smile and is, without a doubt, the most perfect, beautiful woman Dean has ever seen in his life.

The reality of her is better than anything he could have ever imagined, better than the legend of her, this incredible mother, perfect wife. So unreal if he's honest about it, and he wonders if the real Mary Winchester could ever live up to the woman his father revered.

He doubts anyone ever could.

The house seems familiar to him, but also completely different, and it makes Dean's head spin.

His memories of the house are hazy at best given the twenty-four years that've passed since he was last living there, but he'd never have forgotten what Sam's nursery looked like. Not in a million years.

It feels wrong. A guestroom now. The crib's gone, replaced by a queen bed with a blood-red quilted bedspread and matching pillowcases. Frames still hang on the walls, but they don't hold coloured prints of motorbikes anymore; instead, they hold certificates proclaiming Sam's numerous academic and extra-curricular achievements.

He scans the photographs peppered around the room: Sam in his soccer uniform, Dean in his graduation cape and gown, his parents' wedding photographs and his Dad holding some gigantic fish he'd obviously just caught.

This isn't his house. This isn't his life.

But it sure as hell beats the one he's got. This fake life is the kind of life where nobody dies of anything worse than a stroke, and he doesn't have to make promises that end with killing his brother.

It's the kind of life where he doesn't have to watch Sam fall apart from grief, and the pressure of becoming something neither one of them are prepared for.

Sam looks amazing. Healthy and well-muscled and tanned under his preppy wardrobe. No traces of scars or injuries, and he doesn't smell of gun oil or sweat. Instead, he smells of expensive after-shave and normality.

Dean wants to mess him up. Wants to ruffle the perfect hair and clothes. Make him dirty.

But this isn't reality, this is what he wished for, and Sam is happy. He has his Jessica back. There's no place for incest in this world; wrong and fucked-up and full of so much desperate need.

For what he's gained here, he's lost just as much.

***

 

In the end, he can't believe he didn't see it all for what it was. A lie. So stupid for believing in it, this place that was so much better than reality in many ways, and yet so much worse in others.

Sam asks him if he was happy there, and he can't honestly answer. He should have been. Should have been ecstatically happy, and it's probably really fucking selfish of him for wanting everything: wanting his Mom alive and his perfect girlfriend who gets him cheeseburgers instead of ridiculous asparagus sculptures on clean white plates, and Sam happy and innocent and engaged to Jess, and yet still in his bed every night.

"I still wanted... this," he whispers into Sam's neck, like he hopes it'll swallow his words. "We both had Mom and you had Jess and I had... well. A beer commercial." Dean grins, but there's no warmth in it. "I should've been happy, Sammy."

"It wasn't real, though, Dean." Sam rubs a thumb over Dean's mouth, strokes his fingers over a cheekbone. Sam's fingers are rough, covered in gun calluses, his nails ragged. They're familiar and perfect. Sam sits up and starts to strip slowly, not taking his eyes off Dean for a second, and Dean can't wait, pulls his clothes off in desperation, needing to feel Sam, to really feel him, skin-to-skin. "You. Nngh. Could've died."

Sam makes the most perfect little fucking noises when Dean's touching him. Makes Dean crazy hearing his perfectly-controlled brother writhing and moaning and losing it just for him. Gives him an undeniable thrill knowing that he's the one that can do this.

Dean pushes Sam back down and tries to touch him everywhere he can; mouth on his belly, fingers tracing over the hard lines of his body, nails scraping and scratching.

Sam moans, low and guttural. He lets his legs fall open and Dean doesn't waste any time, slicking his fingers up and getting them inside. “Need this,” Dean says as he fucks Sam slow and easy with his fingers. Hopes that Sam understands what he really means when he says it.

"Yes." Sam throws his head back and rocks back and forth, riding Dean's fingers. "Do it."

Dean wishes he could fucking frame this: Sam biting his lip, fingers clenched at his side, and sweat beading on his forehead. This Sam isn't clean and preppy and perfectly groomed, every hair in place. This is his Sam; begging in broken words and sounds and smelling of motel room soap and sweat. Spreading his legs for his brother, desperately clinging to the only person in the world who understands him.

Dean knows that feeling. It's more familiar to him than breathing, and he wants and needs just as badly. He lines himself up, pushes in and when he sinks inside that tight heat, sinks inside of Sam, starts to fuck him deep, it feels like reality, feels normal.

Feels like coming home.


End file.
